Blood and Teenage Retaliation

I came to the realization some months later. I didn't want this disease. My form of resistance was subtle, hidden in my room, knelt over a journal and a test kit. Mother had been disciplining me again about how I never tested my blood sugar. Didn't I know that I was going to die? I didn't want the reminder. Crying in bursts that made me rock softly I drilled into my flesh five times producing pin pricks of blood; thinking I must be crazy because it didn't hurt at all. I smudged my forearm into the pages of my journal, and scrawled uncharacteristically fast "Are you happy now?" under the large dots of blood that first appeared bright red like Christmas lights but over time faded to dull rust. And then I cried some more. Now I was ill in body and in mind. Would there ever be a day of complete freedom? Could I ever just get intoxicated purely with life and screw the results? Or would I be forcibly shackled to clear consciousness for the rest of it?